Hawk's Way: Callen & Zach (5 page)

“I don’t want—”

Callen had bounced up from the floor and settled herself in his lap with her arms around his neck. “I can help, can’t I, Sam? I won the junior cutting horse championship when I was sixteen, just like my mom. And I’ve been helping Daddy work with cutting horses since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

“I’d planned to do the work myself.”

“Of course you did,” she said in a soothing voice. “Only now that you’ve got me, why should you have to do it all alone?”

Her words had tumbled into the deep well of loneliness he lived with and filled it up a little. He reminded himself not to get too dependent on Callen, since there was at least a chance that when the showdown came, when he forced her to choose between her husband and her father, she would choose Garth. But it had felt good to pull her close, to feel the pillow of her breasts against his chest, to feel her fingers twine around the hair at his nape, to feel her lips nuzzle his throat. His hands had tightened reflexively around her.

His conscience often warned him that he was doing the devil’s work, that he would regret his efforts to take revenge against Garth Whitelaw in the way he had chosen. He fought his scruples by visiting his father’s grave almost daily. Each grim sojourn stoked his righ
teous anger and multiplied his enmity. Those malevolent feelings festered inside him, and he had to work hard to keep the darker side of himself hidden from his wife.

He had seen in Callen’s eyes that she knew something was still bothering him, even though she had recently allowed herself to be assuaged with the excuse that he just wanted them to have some time alone. Sometimes he wondered what he would say to her if she probed the situation further. But she had seemed content to let the matter rest.

Until today.

I
T HAD BEEN A BAD DAY ALL AROUND
. Sam had discovered two of his steers dead from eating crazyweed. A flash flood had taken out a whole section of fence. The valves on his pickup had finally ground to a halt and needed to be replaced. Then, when he got home, he had found the kitchen torn apart and no supper ready because Callen was repapering the wall.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“It’s only remnants I found on sale at the hardware store,” she said, apparently assuming the source of his anger was concern about the cost of what she was doing. “Isn’t it pretty?”

For the first time, he looked at the paper. It had small, multicolored flowers on a white background. No man would be caught dead putting something like that on his kitchen wall. For the space of a heartbeat he wondered how he would be able to bear looking at it if she left him. The thought made him angry. Why the hell should he care if she left him? He didn’t love her. Had never loved her. Would never love her.

“It’s fine,” he said flatly. And then felt like a worm because her face fell.

“You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that. Hell, Callen, it’s great paper. I just had a horrible day. And I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are,” she said, immediately stopping what she was doing to come and give him a hug.

He couldn’t help himself. He hugged her back. Well, hell! What was he supposed to do? He had to make sure the woman kept on loving him, didn’t he?

“I’ll cook,” he offered. “You’re busy.”

She wrinkled her nose and laughed at him. “I’ve tasted your cooking. Give me a minute and I’ll have something ready for us. You’ve got time to finish writing out those bills that need attention.” She turned him toward the kitchen door and gave him a little shove toward his study.

He stomped off to his office—which now contained an antique rolltop desk—to work on his books, something he hated because he could never get the numbers to come out right. It was a job E.J. had always done. Which only reminded him of how much he missed his father. Now he was forced to confront the computer in the study and all those numbers. He hated numbers.

It wasn’t long before he could smell something good cooking in the kitchen. Shortly after that, Callen called him in to supper. He gratefully turned off the computer and headed for the kitchen. When he got there, he stood in the doorway and stared at the table.

The wallpaper mess had miraculously disappeared. There were flowers on the table, and she had lit candles. He didn’t know where she had found the china, and he was afraid to ask. The table had a cloth and cloth
napkins. He couldn’t remember the last time he and E.J. had put a cloth on the table, and they hadn’t used candles except when the electricity went out in a storm. He had complained once that all that special stuff wasn’t necessary, but Callen had told him it was no trouble at all.

He sat down with a grunt of expectation, his nose lifting for the scent of whatever it was she had on the stove.

“I just broiled some steak, threw a couple of sweet potatoes into the microwave and steamed a little broccoli on the stove.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Sweet potatoes?”

“Don’t you like them?”

“At Thanksgiving. With lots of brown sugar and marshmallows.”

“Try one. If you don’t like it, I won’t make it again.”

He realized suddenly she had taken the meat of the sweet potato out of the shell, mixed something into it and stuffed it back in again. “What’s in here?” he asked warily.

“Cheese and bacon.”

Sam grunted doubtfully, but he took a bite and found it delicious. He didn’t tell her he liked it; he simply ate it all without further complaint. He had to admit that Callen was a good cook. The steak was rare, the way he liked it, and the broccoli was crisp, but not raw.

He looked up when he had finished to find her watching him expectantly. “Good” was all he said.

From the smile on her face a person would have thought he had told her she was the greatest cook in Texas. He felt guilty for his faint praise and added, “Really good.”

“Are you feeling better now that you’ve filled your stomach?”

He thought about it a minute and chuckled. “I guess I am.”

“Remind me to keep you well fed in the future,” she said with a grin.

There it was again.
The future
. His irritation rose at the reminder of what he was doing with her…to her…and the words were out before he could stop them. “I’m not a child, Callen. Don’t treat me like one.”

He saw from the stunned look on her face that she hadn’t expected him to lash out at her. The hurt look that followed a moment later made him feel guilty, because he knew she didn’t deserve his criticism.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” she said in a voice that was threatening because it was so serious. “I want to know. I can’t live like this, knowing that something’s eating you inside. What is it? Please, tell me.”

At first he was terrified that Garth might have told her the truth. That she was going to create a showdown here and now. He realized in a horrified instant that he would do anything to keep her with him.

Even forego your vengeance?

He avoided answering the question, reasoning that she couldn’t know the truth. Otherwise she would have confronted him with it. He met her gaze, which was dark and somber.

“Sam, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He rose so abruptly the ladder-back chair fell with a crash. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just not used to having someone around all the time asking me dumb questions!”

She jerked as though he had slapped her. And he had, figuratively. But the Callen he knew was full of guts and gumption, and she didn’t disappoint him. She jumped
to her feet and snapped right back, “I’m not
someone
, I’m your
wife
. And I only want to help!”

“I don’t need your help,” Sam said in a harsh voice, admiring her even as he pushed her away. “I have to handle this by myself.”

“Is it your father? Are you still grieving?”

“I don’t want to talk about this!” Sam said, heading for the privacy of his office. Damn, if the woman didn’t get to the kitchen door before him and bar the way!

“You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s wrong,” Callen insisted.

“Get out of my way, Callen.”

“No.”

He stood there a minute, trying to decide what was best. The solution to his problem was simple when it finally came to him. He turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen door that led outside. He slammed it on his way out.

It occurred to him much later that he was going to have to face Callen eventually, or end up sleeping in the barn. When it came down to it, he decided sleeping in the barn wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe a night spent on her own would convince Callen that his business was his own.

Actually, Callen spent the night sleeping quite soundly. Because, while she hadn’t gotten Sam to tell her what his problem was, she now knew it hadn’t been her imagination. Something serious was bothering him, other than the situation with her father. She was certain that Sam would have no choice except to confess. She wasn’t going to give him any peace until he did.

Sam slept poorly in the barn. The hay in the loft was scratchy, and the wool blanket he had laid over it
smelled of horse. It was also miserably hot. Sweat dribbled its way across his skin like many-footed worms. And he missed the feel of Callen lying next to him. In the hours he spent lying awake, listening to the rustling movements of the animals below, he thought about his confrontation with Callen.

He was going to have to tell her something. Otherwise she was going to ferret out the truth. He didn’t want that to happen. He crept back into the house at dawn only to find his wife already fixing breakfast. He shifted his eyes to the wallpaper and said contritely, “I’m sorry. I guess I owe you an explanation.”

The fool woman dropped the spatula in the pan and walked right into his arms. She felt good and smelled sweet and her mouth was warm and wet and made his body go hard.

“I missed you,” she whispered in his ear. She rubbed her cheek against his jaw and made a kittenish sound in her throat that drew his body up tight. “You need a shave, Sam,” she said with a raspy chuckle. At the same time, her hands came up to caress his cheeks, and she sought his mouth with hers.

A moment later she jerked herself free. “The bacon!”

He watched her race back to the stove where the bacon had kept right on cooking.

She turned back to him with a grin. “It’s perfect. Sit down and eat. Once your stomach is full, there’ll be plenty of time to talk.”

He took her at her word. The eggs were perfectly done, over easy with the yolks soft. The bacon was crisp, but not burned, and the toast was lavishly buttered. The coffee was hot and strong. She was a darn good cook.

She waited for him to finish his second cup of coffee before she reminded him that he had a confession to make.

“All right, Sam. It’s time to talk. I want to know what’s been bothering you.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. He had to make this good. “I—I can’t do the bookkeeping.”

“What?” There was a blank look on her face. Clearly she wasn’t expecting anything that simple.

“E.J. used to do it. I can’t seem to get the numbers to come out right, but I can’t afford to hire someone else to do it. Things are in a mess.”

Her whole face lit up. “Why didn’t you just say so? I can do the bookkeeping for you.” She lowered her lids so he couldn’t see her eyes. “I mean, if you want me to.”

He hesitated, as though reluctant to agree. He hadn’t realized he was going to be killing two birds with one stone. Not only had he put her off the scent about his “problem,” but he was also going to be relieved of the onerous task of keeping the Double L books.

“I suppose that would be all right,” he said gruffly.

She left her chair and sat herself in his lap, draping her arms around his shoulders. She looked deep into his eyes, until he was sure she would see the truth. But all he saw reflected back to him was her concern.

“Don’t feel bad about the bookkeeping,” she said earnestly. “Some people are inclined that way and some aren’t.”

He felt himself flushing. She was obviously aware that he hadn’t been a good student. She had said, in as gentle and caring a way as she could, that it was all right if he couldn’t handle the difficult stuff. She would do it for him.

Sam had known from the first grade that he and
numbers didn’t get along. Reading hadn’t been any easier. It had been a struggle to keep up with his class work all through school. He had been the butt of a lot of cruel teasing, and he had grown a thick skin to fend it off. E.J. had kept him from feeling like a total idiot by reminding him that he grasped most ideas readily. Thank goodness he had been fast on his feet. That had given him self-esteem and a value to his peers.

But here it was again, that insidious feeling of inadequacy, just because he found numbers more than a mere challenge. Because he found numbers impossible to understand.

He felt like shoving her off his lap, but she forestalled him when she leaned her head on his shoulder trustingly and relaxed in his arms. She trusted him. She loved him. She didn’t care that he couldn’t figure numbers.

The crisis was past. They could go on as before.

He let the hurt go and held her close.

W
HEN
C
ALLEN BROUGHT UP
S
AM’S
figures on the computer she saw right away why he hadn’t been able to make them balance. Several of the numbers were juxtaposed. Instead of 312.42 for fence posts, as was stated on the invoice, Sam had inserted 321.24 on the computer. It was a simple matter, once she realized the problem, to correct the numbers and make them balance. She then wrote out checks and signed them.

It occurred to her that Sam’s problem with numbers might have a source he hadn’t recognized: dyslexia. Only, she couldn’t imagine how he could have a problem like that and not have had it diagnosed a long time ago. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Sam’s difficulties in school might have stemmed from his inability to see numbers and letters as they appeared on the page.

She confronted him the next morning at the breakfast table with her suspicions. “Sam, do you have dyslexia?”

Sam stared at her as if she had accused him of having a social disease. “What?”

“Dyslexia. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. Letters get jumbled up on a page when a dyslexic tries to read them. It’s more common in males than females. I just thought, since you had so much trouble in school…”
Callen’s voice faded as Sam’s features reddened. Was he embarrassed? Did he think she thought less of him because he had difficulty reading? It wasn’t his fault. People were born with the problem. “I just thought you might have been diagnosed with it sometime in the past.”

“I’m not sick, Callen,” Sam said in a terrible, low voice. “I’m just not as smart as other people.”

“How can you say such a thing!”

“Because it’s true,” he said flatly. “I’ve accepted it. So should you.” He rose abruptly from the breakfast table and stalked toward the door.

She rose and started after him. “Sam! Wait! I only thought—”

He turned on her, a storm of emotions on his face. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her once. “Let it be, Callen. I’ve lived with the way I am for thirty-six years. It’s a little late to be coming up with excuses for why I can’t manage simple, ordinary addition and subtraction, don’t you think? Accept it. I’m not smart. I never promised I was.”

He paused a moment and a muscle jerked in his jaw before he said, “Maybe you should have listened to your brother. I never got past high school, and I was lucky to make it through that. You don’t have to find excuses for me, Callen.” And then, bleakly, “I know what I am. And what I’m not.”

A moment later he was gone, and she was standing alone in the kitchen wondering what had gone wrong. She had never seen Sam so angry. Or so frustrated. She had never realized he was so sensitive about his education or his intelligence. He was wrong, of course. There was nothing stupid about Sam Longstreet. He was sharp
as a whip. After what she had seen on the computer, she was willing to bet he was merely dyslexic.

Only, if he was, why hadn’t someone—one of his teachers early on, or the tutors Zach said the football team had hired to help Sam pass his academic subjects—discovered the problem? More to the point, how was she going to get Sam to agree to a test to determine whether he had a reading dysfunction or not?

The problem got pushed to the background when Sam returned home hobbling later that afternoon. His face was ashen, and his body was trembling.

“My God! What happened?” Callen exclaimed as Sam lowered himself gently to a kitchen chair.

“I got stomped by a cow. Made the mistake of getting between her and her calf while I was repairing some fence. I managed to slide to the opposite side of the barbed wire, but not before she laid into me some.”

“Why didn’t you go straight to the hospital!” Callen exclaimed as she dropped to one knee in front of him. She reached up to unbutton his torn and dirtied shirt and hissed in a breath of air when she saw the growing bruises on his chest. “Sam, this looks serious,” she said in a wobbly voice. “Please let me take you to the hospital.”

“It’s too expensive,” he said flatly. “Besides, I’ve been through this before. I’ve got a broken rib, maybe two. The most a doctor can do is bind me up. I can do that for myself.”

Callen was terrified that Sam might have internal injuries he wasn’t aware of, or that one of those broken ribs might puncture a lung. “Please,” she begged.

“No, and that’s final.” He tried to get up, but groaned and slid back into the kitchen chair. “You’re going to have to bind me up. I can’t do it myself.”

“I can’t—”

“I’ve got bandages I’ve used in the past. They’re under the sink in the bathroom. Go get them.”

Callen found several rolls of Ace bandages where Sam had told her to look and brought them back to the kitchen. Sam had slid his shirt off his shoulders. The skin was scraped raw in several places, and the bruising looked terrible. She bit her lip to keep from pleading with him again. In the short time they had been married, she had learned how stubborn he could be. There was no sense wasting energy arguing. She would bind him up, put him in bed and then get a doctor to come see him, whether he liked it or not.

The color was returning to Sam’s face by the time Callen finished. “Do you need help getting to bed?”

“I think I can manage.”

When he tried to get to his feet, he swayed dizzily. He reached out for her, and she slid herself under his arm to support him. “Just take it easy,” she coaxed.

Callen eased Sam into bed and retreated to the kitchen to phone the Whitelaw family doctor. “I know you don’t usually make house calls, Dr. Stephens, but Sam refuses to go to the hospital. I’m afraid he may have some internal injuries. Thanks. I’ll be expecting you then.”

Sam lay in bed staring at the ceiling, disgusted at having gotten himself into this situation. He didn’t like depending on Callen for anything. He had to admit she had done a good job of binding his ribs. And he would have fallen flat on his face in the kitchen if she hadn’t been there to catch him. But he already felt enough in her debt for all the work she had done around the house.

He had been a changed man since his marriage, rising earlier than he had in years and working late into
the night. No matter how tired he was, he had always found time to make love to Callen. He had tried to convince himself it was all part of the plan. But he realized now he had done it because he had wanted to please and impress his wife. He had wanted to earn her respect. And now here he was stuck in bed, helpless, flat on his back.

He tried rising, but his ribs hurt him too much. He didn’t have any choice but to stay where he was. He had just started wondering where Callen was keeping herself when he heard her talking to someone in the kitchen. His first panicked thought was that Garth had come to visit. He gasped at the pain when he tried to rise and fell back to the bed.

“Who’s there, Callen?” he called out to her. His answer came in the form of a strange man in the doorway. One look at the black bag he carried, and Sam swore under his breath. He turned an accusing glance on Callen, who stared defiantly back at him. “I told you I didn’t need to see a doctor.”

“I have no desire to bury a husband I’ve just married,” she replied tartly. “You’ll let the doctor look at you, Sam Longstreet, if you know what’s good for you.”

Sam had to admire her daring, even if he deplored her tactics. He couldn’t very well walk out on her this time, and so long as the doctor was here, he might as well get checked over. “All right, Doc. Go ahead and look. All you’re going to find is a few busted ribs.”

Sam couldn’t stand the anxious look on Callen’s face. “You don’t need to stay,” he told her.

“Just try getting me out of here!” she challenged with a spark in her eyes.

Sam turned his face toward the wall. She had him over a barrel and she knew it. Hell, it wasn’t so bad having a woman hovering over him all concerned like this. In fact, it felt kind of nice to know she cared. “Do what you want,” he said. But there was more resignation in his voice than anger.

Sam lay as still as he could under the doctor’s poking and prodding, but more than once he wished Callen weren’t there so he could let out the groans he had gritted behind his teeth.

“Broken ribs, all right,” Dr. Stephens confirmed. “I don’t like the looks of that bruising. Could be some internal bleeding. I’d like you to come to the hospital where I can do some more thorough tests.”

“No,” Sam said. “No hospital. No tests.”

“Sam,” Callen pleaded.

“No.”

The doctor frowned. “If that’s the way you want it, I can’t force you to go. But I want Callen to check for tenderness in your belly here and here—” he pointed out the spots to Callen with his fingertips “—every couple of hours for the next twenty-four, and get you to the hospital quick if any tenderness shows up. Also, watch to make sure that bruising doesn’t spread any farther downward.”

“Will he be all right?” Callen asked.

“So long as he takes it easy until those ribs heal.”

“How long?” Callen asked.

“No work for ten days, at least,” the doctor said. “Two weeks would be better. Otherwise you take the chance of aggravating your injury.”

Sam scowled. He already had more work than he could handle. This wasn’t going to help things. He
would get up when he was damned good and ready, no matter what the doctor said.

In that respect, Sam had underestimated Callen. She threatened dire consequences if he left the bedroom and brought his meals on a tray. Sam had never had anyone fuss over him in his life. At first he felt uncomfortable having her wait on him. He had done nothing to deserve Callen’s concern, and if she knew the truth, she would be throwing bowls of soup at him, not serving them.

But, oh, how he relished the tender care his wife gave him! Callen crooned to him as she soothed his sweating brow with a cool cloth. She made delicious meals and served them to him with the newspaper, which she read to him while he ate, saving him the effort.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were helping Jimmy Lee Johnson earn the money for a car?” Callen asked him one afternoon.

Sam felt the heat in his throat rising toward his face. “How’d you find out about that?”

“He came here looking for work. I thought he’d heard about your ribs, but he told me you’ve hired him to work for you every Wednesday.”

Sam was expecting Callen to complain about the expense. He had opened his mouth to justify himself when she leaned over and kissed him hard on the mouth. He was too stunned even to respond.

“You are about the nicest man I ever met, Sam Longstreet. Not many men would hire a teenage boy to do work he could easily do himself and pay him money that he doesn’t have, all to help that teenage boy realize his dream. Oh, I’m so proud to be your wife!”

She was gone a moment later, back to chores in the house. But the good feeling she had inspired—the simple pleasure of feeling good about himself—lasted the rest of the day.

Sam had hired Jimmy Lee because he had seen a lot of himself in the boy. Long ago he had eked out enough doing odd jobs for neighboring ranchers to buy his first motorcycle. It was sitting in the barn now. He hadn’t ridden it in years, not since he had hurt his knee his senior year in high school. He had been forced to give it up while his knee mended. Somehow, he seemed to have outgrown it after that. He wondered if it would still run. Maybe when he was on his feet again, he would check it out.

Meanwhile, Callen only barely managed to deter her mother from coming over to help nurse Sam. “He wouldn’t be comfortable,” she explained. “He feels bad even letting me wait on him, Mom.” It went without saying that going to her parents’ home, even to attend their annual Labor Day picnic, was out of the question until Sam recovered.

To Callen’s amazement and delight, her brother, Falcon, and his wife, Mara, ignored her warnings against company. They had driven to Hawk’s Way from Falcon’s ranch in Dallas for the Whitelaws’ annual Labor Day picnic, and refused to leave without seeing Callen and Sam. They brought along Charlie One Horse, the ancient, part-Comanche housekeeper who had helped raise two generations of Whitelaws.

“Charlie!” Callen cried as she grabbed him by his gray braids and pulled him close for a hug. “I’m so glad you came to visit!”

She brought them all into the bedroom where Sam was propped up and paging through a stock magazine.

“Sam, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Charlie One Horse. He’s taken care of me since I was in diapers.”

Sam shook hands and said, “Glad to meet you.”

Callen was so excited, she barely gave them time to greet each other before she introduced her brother and his wife. “You know Falcon,” she said, “and this is Mara, his wife.”

“We’ve met,” Sam said with a smile.

“You have?”

“Years ago,” Sam said. “It’s nice to see you again, Falcon. I’m sorry I can’t get up, Mara. We weren’t family the last time we met, so I didn’t get a chance to hug you then. And now I’m stuck here in bed.”

“I can fix that,” Mara said with a twinkle in her eye. She leaned over and gave Sam a quick kiss on the cheek. She laughed at the possessive-jealous-chagrined look on Callen’s face when she had finished.

“We brought some food from the picnic, since you couldn’t come,” Charlie One Horse said. He began to arrange a huge spread of food on a tray that he set in front of Sam on the bed.

“We came to celebrate the day with you,” Mara said, “since you couldn’t come to us.”

“Callen and I will go get the drinks,” Falcon said as he dragged her toward the kitchen. Once they were there, he turned to her and said, “What the hell’s going on, Callen? Mom and Dad said they haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since you got married. I don’t think they believe Sam’s really hurt.”

“As you can see,” Callen replied in an icy voice, “he is.”

“That doesn’t explain why the two of you haven’t been to Hawk’s Way to visit since you got married.”

“You must have heard some of the awful things Daddy and Zach had to say about Sam before the wedding.”

“So?”

“So, in time, when things cool off, we’ll go visit.”

“Why can’t you go now, by yourself?” Falcon demanded.